


Blast To The Past

by Grundy



Series: The Basement Flat [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:23:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4691951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dawn is not having a good morning after a night out drinking with her upstairs neighbors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blast To The Past

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the upcoming Victorian special.

The persistant banging on the door of her flat was what dragged a very cranky Dawn Summers out of dreamland far too early on a Sunday morning.

“Whaddayawan?” she mumbled blearily, trying to remember just how many pints she’d had on last night’s pub crawl, and firmly resolving to never do that again.

‘That’ being going out with Sherlock and John when Mary was out of town. Mary could usually be counted on to help restrain the boys and make sure everyone got home in one piece. Left on her own to wrangle the pair of them, Dawn had turned to drink fairly early.

She’s not too sure how they got back, much less whether or not Sherlock managed to not get in any fights, because drunk Sherlock is even less filter than usual Sherlock and that rarely ends well.

On the bright side, she was in her own bed without anyone from Scotland Yard glaring at her, so the night can’t have gone too badly.

“Dawn, could I have a word please?”

John’s tone is trying for patience, but it sounds like he’s already had too much Sherlock this morning. Under the veneer of polite, reasonable British doctor is a thoroughly aggravated soldier who’s ready to take someone’s head off.

Either that or her assessment that the previous night can’t have gone too badly is very off.

Wrapping her duvet firmly around her to cover up the fact that she apparently decided in her drunken stupor that putting on pj’s was too complicated and is wearing nothing but her knickers, Dawn stumbled over to the door. She’d intended to march, but realized after putting one foot down that she’s too morning after for that.

She hopes whatever John wants doesn’t take long, because she really needs to go back to sleep for a few more hours. Or possibly the whole day.

She succeeds in undoing the lock on the second try and opens the door to find John dressed to the nines. Any other morning, she’d have some sort of witty comment. This morning, all she does is gape. He’s not usually the suit type.

“Yes, well…” John mumbles, understanding perfectly well what she’s thinking even if her exhausted brain can’t quite pick out the words to say yet.

“Did you ask her yet?” Sherlock’s voice floats down the stairs.

The man himself follows only seconds later, and Dawn wonders vaguely if they’re into cosplay and just never told her- and if they are, what they’re supposed to be. The suits fit extremely well, but are very definitely period pieces.

“Ask what?” she sighs, accepting reluctantly that she’s not going back to bed anytime soon, and thanking whatever gods care to listen that at least Mrs. Hudson hasn’t joined the party yet. Though if she had, there would be tea, and that might improve the world…

“If you know what’s going on,” John replies with the air of a man exercising great restraint in not killing either his flatmate or his downstairs neighbor.

“What’s going on what?” is the best Dawn can do with that on too few hours sleep, too much alcohol, and too little tea.

“You haven’t looked out the window yet,” Sherlock remarks cheerfully.

Dawn closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose, wondering what exactly Lestrade will charge her with if she actually ties him to a chair naked with his mouth duct taped shut and dumps him out in the middle of Portman Square like she’s threatened to do a couple times.

“Why don’t we start with something a little closer to home,” John suggests, evidently realizing she’s on the edge. “Dawn, have a look at your wardrobe?”

Dawn turns around, and stops dead. Because the boys aren’t the only one who have period clothing. She definitely did not have a closet full of full length dresses last night.

That’s when the ambient sound catches up with her – or more accurately, the lack thereof. There are no sirens. No occasional rumble of passing Tube trains, and in the basement flat, she’s close enough to the line that she usually does know. She can’t hear the background hum of traffic on the Marylebone Road, but she did just hear the clop-clop of a single horse- which is odd, because the Met’s mounted police usually travel in pairs on the rare occasions they are found in Baker Street.

“What the holy hell?” Dawn splutters.

“Ah. So you didn’t know either,” John says resignedly.

He’s clearly been hoping Dawn had some explanation.

That’s when Dawn catches sight of herself in the mirror- and notices the cut she evidently gave herself undressing last night. She doesn’t remember doing it, but it wouldn’t be the first time she’s accidentally sliced herself on the dangly shiny things on that particular top.

Add in that she’d been having an argument with Sherlock about how much harder he’d find solving crimes back in Victorian times, when there were no labs like he’s used to, and god forbid no mobile phones, and she gets an answer she really doesn’t like.

Her quiet ‘oh, shit,’ gets both the boys’ attention.

“I think I did this,” she confesses sheepishly. “On accident.”

And then, because she can see Sherlock firing up and is in no mood to deal with it, not to mention she’s just processed what the clothes in her wardrobe mean, she adds, “And don’t even start, Sherlock. You’re not the one who ended up as the _maid_.”


End file.
